


oh, the siren song

by valiantlybold



Series: wolf in lark's clothing [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Blood, Blood and Torture, Cannibalism, Come Swallowing, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Gore, Kept Boys, Knife Throwing, M/M, Mild Gore, Mind Control, Mob Boss Jaskier, Murder, Oral Sex, Past Mind Control, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Relationship(s), Past Sexual Abuse, Polyamorous relationship, Polyamory, Supernatural Elements, Torture, Vampires, Werewolves, and yes i am gonna write the smutty things they talk about at the start, kept boy eskel, kept boy geralt, kept boy lambert, werewolves eating people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:41:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23190323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantlybold/pseuds/valiantlybold
Summary: Valdo Marx wants a meeting, and Jaskier doesnotlook forward to it.Still, it ends surprisingly well.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, past jaskier/valdo marx
Series: wolf in lark's clothing [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640455
Comments: 12
Kudos: 312





	oh, the siren song

_“Fucking Valdo fucking Marx!”_

Geralt takes a deep breath.

He doesn’t know who Valdo Marx is, but if he’s got Jaskier this upset, then Marx is far from a lucky man.

Jaskier throws another knife.

It hits the wall and sticks, with a resounding _thwack!_

_“That slimy little piss-ant!”_

Jaskier throws yet another knife.

_Thwack!_

“Who’s Valdo Marx?” Geralt asks Lambert lowly.

The man grunts. “Jaskier’s ex.”

“Ah.”

“And he’s also part of the organization.”

_“Ah.”_

“Middle manager sort of type. Runs a few things for us. Jaskier’s never happy when he has to deal with him.”

“I can see that.”

“Apparently, it was a bad break-up.”

 _“Bad_ is too kind of a word!” Jaskier shouts, clearly having overheard them.

 _Thwack,_ as another knife hits the wall.

“That absolute _bastard!_ I’m merciful enough just to let that bastard _live!_ And now he wants to ask me for _favors?!_ The arrogance! _The nerve!”_

“Just tell him no and be done with it, then,” Geralt suggests.

Jaskier sighs. He stops throwing his knives. He shuffles over to where Geralt and Lambert are seated on the couch, and lays himself out there, feet up in Geralt’s lap and his head resting against Lambert’s chest.

“Believe me, I’d love to. But I can’t. As much as I hate him, he’s got a good sense of business. If his plans are favorable to the organization, I can’t in good conscience say no. This thing, the whole business, the family... It’s not about me. It was started to protect our people. Keep us safe from humans. If what he’s planning will work towards that goal, I can’t say no. Our kind is more important than my ego.”

Absently, Geralt divests Jaskier of his shoes and takes one of Jaskier’s feet in hand, massaging it.

“So this whole...mob thing, is really just to protect supernatural people?”

Jaskier hums. “Started that way, anyway. Back in the day. People were getting reckless, risking exposure. So this whole thing started out of a need to keep our people in line. Handle the risk-takers, protect those who just want to go about their lives. These days, of course, we’ve become known to the humans so we do what we must to appear as something humans can understand but won’t meddle with. Thus, organized crime.”

“Hm.”

The door opens. Eskel walks into the office. He smiles when he sees them. He comes over, and takes a seat on the couch as well.

“Spoke to Marx,” Eskel says. “He’ll be here in about an hour.”

Jaskier sighs at that. “I hate him.”

“We know, darling,” Lambert says, petting the doppler’s hair. “But think of it like this. If you just bear through it for a few hours today, he won’t have a reason to bother you for at least a few months.”

“Guess that’s a silver lining,” the man mutters.

“And afterwards,” Geralt says, switching to Jaskier’s other foot. “-we can spend the rest of the day helping you relieve all this tension.”

That makes Jaskier hum and grin. “I like the sound of that… Can we get started now?”

“That depends. How would you like your tension relieved?” Eskel agrees, fingers stroking through Jaskier’s unruly mop of hair.

Jaskier licks his lips. “Well… I’d _love_ to watch Geralt ride someone. He’s got just the _loveliest_ bottom, I’d love to see what it looks like when it’s bouncing on a cock.”

Geralt must admit, the thought does strike a chord in him. He hasn’t actually ridden any of them yet. He can’t say he’s going to be good at it, no experience and all, but he’d sure as hell give it his best shot.

“I could do that,” he says.

He gets Jaskier’s feet out of his lap, then moves. He crawls over the man’s body, spreading his legs, nosing up one muscled thigh wrapped in dark silk until he reaches the lovely bulge at the top. Fingers card through his hair.

“If Lambert eats me out again, that is.”

The werewolf chuckles, reaching down to join his fingers with Jaskier’s, petting Geralt’s hair. “Wouldn’t mind that. I’d have to prep you right, if you wanted to try taking my knot.”

Geralt hums. Jaskier moans as the noise vibrates against his crotch. Geralt mouths at the outline of Jaskier’s cock, feels it rush to fill out for him.

“Bet he’d look great on your knot,” Eskel agrees.

When Geralt glances up, he’s met with the electrifying sight of Eskel ravishing the werewolf’s mouth. It’s amazing to watch them kiss. Even more so, when they break apart and Eskel takes Jaskier for a moment instead. After his turn is up, though, Eskel lets him go and Lambert takes Jaskier over.

Geralt gets Jaskier’s slacks undone, drags them down his thighs, eases his cock out of his boxers.

Fuck, he loves the feeling of Jaskier’s cock in his mouth; and Eskel’s, and Lambert’s. He loves all their cocks, loves feeling them in his ass, loves feeling them in his mouth.

God, they’ve _really_ turned him into a proper cockslut, haven’t they?

He flicks his tongue over the head, caressing the slit, eyes rolling back at just the _taste_ of precum. He runs his tongue along the ridge of the head too, as he knows that always makes Jaskier _quiver_ for it.

Jaskier’s back arches as he moans.

Geralt sucks on him gently, treating him kindly, tongue petting his cock’s underside as he slowly works his way all the way to the base.

A hand clenches into a fist in his hair and tugs at the white strands.

“Geralt, _oh, fuck,_ Geralt,” the doppler moans.

Geralt looks up again as he sets a slow rhythm. Lambert’s mouth sucks marks along Jaskier’s neck; Eskel seems to be whispering in Jaskier’s ears. One hand each is on Jaskier’s chest, toying with either nipple, his button-up hanging open.

His chest is covered with soft hair, skin dusted blush pink underneath.

Geralt swallows him deep. He groans around the cockhead pressing insistently into his throat. Jaskier’s whole body shivers. He stays until his head starts spinning. He stays until his lungs ache for air. He pulls off, gasping, coughs lightly, then goes back to it. His mouth is drawn almost magnetically to Jaskier; he just wants to keep tasting him, feeling him in his mouth, in his throat.

“Come on, love,” Eskel says, just loud enough for Geralt to hear him now. “That’s it, give it all to Geralt now, show him how much you love his talented little mouth.”

“You heard him, darling,” Lambert joins in, talking softly in Jaskier’s other ear. “You want me to knot Geralt’s lovely bottom, don’t you? Well, you’ve got to earn that little show, so _earn it._ Come on, you can do it.”

And on cue, Geralt feels it and tastes it. Jaskier spills into his throat and he tastes it on the back of his tongue. He laps at Jaskier’s beautiful cock, still, sucks it clean and swallows down every little morsel.

He kisses the head once he’s done, then gently tucks him back into his boxers and does up his slacks again.

“Oh, I needed that,” Jaskier hums, lazy with the afterglow. “Thank you, loves. You’re so good to me.”

Geralt leans up. He catches Jaskier’s already kissed pink lips in a chaste kiss of his own.

“Take a rest,” he says, then. “Me and Eskel will get things ready for the meeting.”

Jaskier smiles. He strokes Geralt’s cheek like he’s a precious treasure. “Let Eskel and Lambert,” he says. “You should take a minute too.”

“He’s right,” Lambert agrees while Eskel nods along.

The human sighs, but knows it’s no use arguing on it. He lays back on the couch. Jaskier crawls up his body and gets comfortable on top of him. The vampire and the werewolf get up and get to work.

*

Geralt stands to Jaskier’s right, while Lambert stands on the left.

They need only wait a few minutes before Eskel returns.

Valdo Marx follows Eskel.

He is a handsome man, Geralt will admit. He’s got wicked eyes, though, and whatever he did to earn Jaskier’s ire has earned him Geralt’s too. As a matter of principle, Geralt dislikes him immediately.

Eskel joins Lambert. Marx sits down in the seat prepared for him before Jaskier large desk.

“Good to see you, _Julian.”_

Geralt no longer dislikes him on principle alone.

“Valdo. So why are you bothering me today?”

Marx’s smirk is as sleazy as the rest of him. “Yes, of course, my apologies, I’d hate to interrupt playtime,” he says, eyeing the boys. “Hope the dog hasn’t given you fleas.”

Lambert, credit to him, says nothing and does nothing. He gives no reaction.

Seeing that sours Marx’s mood. He was very obviously trying to get some sort of reaction out of any of them.

“Valdo, for once in your pitiful life, stop the bullshit and tell me what you want,” Jaskier tells him.

He’s calm. Much more calm than his earlier aggression would foretell.

Marx leans back, he crosses his legs. He turns his eye on Geralt. “Are you sure it’s wise to let that _thing_ be here while we discuss it?”

He clearly has a very low opinion of humans.

“If you have a problem with any of my boys, you’re welcome to leave."

Marx scoffs. “I suppose it’s just like you, to be bedding a _human.”_

Jaskier sighs, the tension rapidly creeping back into his shoulders. “I doubt you only came here to whine, so get to the fucking point, Marx, or we’re done here.”

“Lost you sense of humor, then?” Marx bites, acerbic in his tone. “Where? Between the thighs of your little _pets?”_

“Valdo, I’m warning you,” Jaskier replies calmly, though there is no less venom in his tone. _“Get to the point.”_

The man scoffs. “Alright, alright, don’t lose your head, birdy,” he says.

Geralt has to fight to keep from strangling the bastard.

“The Lioness is losing her patience. I’ve tried my best to broker peace between her coven and the pack, but she’s impulsive and vindictive,” Marx begins, finally doing as he was asked and getting to the point. “At the same time, the pack is getting increasingly aggressive. It won’t be long before they start fighting in the streets.”

“And I’m assuming you have a solution to propose?”

“Yes. Move the siren sanctuary. Put it between their territories, as a buffer zone. If they come to blows, the sirens can use their song to calm them all. They won’t lose any territory size, it’ll just be moved around a little.”

Jaskier hums. He reached down into one of the drawers of his desk and pulls out a map of the city. He unfolds it quickly, laying it out across the desk.

“Show me.”

Marx gets up. He takes a pencil out of the cup sitting to the side on the desk.

“The coven is here, and the pack is here, with the sanctuary down here,” he says, drawing on the map. “If we draw back their borders to here and here, and expand them southwards instead, the sanctuary will fit between them. I’ve done the math, and their territories will still remain the sizes, they’ll just cover a slightly different area.”

“Hm… It’ll take some shuffling around, but it should work,” Jaskier admits. He grabs a pencil as well. “Maybe we move the pack down here, to the south, and push all the other territories northwards to fill out the space left behind, to make the whole city the buffer zone.”

“It’s possible, but it will be hard.You’ll have to relocate half the city, and I doubt they’ll look favorably on it.”

Jaskier sighs. “And there’s no chance of peace between them?”

Marx sits back down. “Not that I can see. I can arrange another meeting, if you want to speak with them, but I doubt it will make a difference.”

Jaskier considers it. He looks at the map, studying the lines they have drawn.

“Call the meeting. I’ll speak to them myself. But keep working on this _buffer zone_ idea. It’ll be a last resort.”

“You know they don’t like being summoned,” Marx says. “Perhaps they’ll take it better if your pet leech and the puppy act as messengers?”

The doppler lets out another sigh. “Enough with the insults, Valdo, it’s getting tedious.”

“Oh, please! Don’t pretend you actually _care_ about these toys of yours!” Valdo says, grinning like the cat that got the canary. “Everyone knows they’re just a trio of whores you pay to _pretend_ to enjoy your company, and trust me, people _pity_ you for it.”

Geralt knows he himself is a split-second away from leaping across the desk and beating Marx to death; out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eskel and Lambert twitching, waiting for the order to strike.

But the order doesn’t come.

Instead, Jaskier smiles.

And it isn’t a fake smile, an accommodate smile.

It’s a genuine smile.

“Geralt, love,” he says calmly. “You know how a human has one set of vocal cords?”

“Yes?” Geralt says, though confused.

“Well, a siren like Valdo here,” the doppler continues. “-has three sets of vocal cords.”

Geralt in fact _did not_ know that. “Hm.”

“Yes, that’s how they produce sounds able to entrance the mind. They reach frequencies that would be impossible to achieve with only one set. They soothe the mind and hypnotize you.”

“Interesting.”

“Indeed. I’ve always wanted to see what they look like. How they fit in the throat.”

Geralt thinks he knows where this is going.

Marx, however, is still smiling, so he does not.

“Eskel, dear?”

“Yeah?”

“Grab him for me.”

And in the blink of an eye, Eskel moves.

Fuck, Geralt still can’t wrap his head around how _fast_ Eskel actually is.

In the next moment, Valdo is splayed out on the desk, Eskel’s hand around his throat and the other over his mouth, no doubt to keep him from singing them docile.

Jaskier reaches into another drawer. From it, he withdraws a photo album and a Polaroid camera.

Eskel seems to know what that means, as he moves as soon as he sees the camera. He leans over Marx, staring into his eyes. His sclera turn red, his irises turn golden, and Valdo’s struggling body goes completely lax.

Eskel releases him.

Valdo stands up. He walks over to the wall, which is covered in pock-marks from the earlier knife-throwing. He stands with his back to the wall and stares blankly ahead.

Jaskier gets up. He moves over and takes a picture of Valdo’s face, humming to himself as the picture prints. He holds out the camera. Lambert hurries over and takes it off his hands.

When the picture is developed, Jaskier holds it up to Valdo, though the man’s blank eyes don’t appear to register what he’s seeing.

“Handsome man, aren’t you?” Jaskier says. “I’ve always thought so. Maybe I’ll wear your face sometime. I wonder if I’ll be able to sing like you. Hypnotize people. I guess I’ve got all the time in the world to find out.”

He returns to the desk and opens the photo albums. As he flips through it, Geralt spies a multitude of pictures of different people’s faces.

“Curious, Geralt?” Jaskier says, catching him looking.

Geralt shrugs.

Jaskier smiles. “Dopplers have limits,” he says, sliding the picture of Valdo into an empty slot on a new page. “We can only transform into people we can see. _But_ with the advent of technology, we have become _less_ limited. Now, a simple photo is enough to facilitate a shift.”

“Hm.”

“And _this_ is my collection of faces,” Jaskier continues, flipping through the pages. “I cherish every single one of my dear faces. And now I’ve got Valdo to add to my collection.”

“Can I see?”

Jaskier pushes the album across the desk towards Geralt. The human looks at the open pages. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it really is just a book of faces. Pictures of all sorts of random people; young and old, men and women, any and all races, any and all hair-colors and eye-colors, no single one more or less remarkable than the next.

“You can be any of these you want?” Geralt asks as he slowly flips through the pages.

“One look, and any of these faces can be my face.”

It’s amazing, Geralt thinks. That he can just _change_ his face whenever he pleases; he can be anyone he wants.

“Who is he?”

“Who?”

Geralt looks at Jaskier. “Him. That face. The one you’re wearing now.”

The doppler’s smile goes tight. “He’s-… He _was_ a very nice young man, whom I met many years ago. He’s the first one I decided to take a photo of and save. I dunno, I just loved his eyes. There was something… _warm_ in them. His smile was kind. And when I heard he’d died… I couldn’t bring him back, of course, but I wanted him to keep living in some way. So I decided to wear his face. All I can hope is that his eyes are as warm and his smile is as kind, when I am the one wearing them.”

Geralt closes the album. “Think they’re plenty warm, and that smile’s plenty kind. When you want them to be.”

And that, warms those eyes and turns that smile kind again, and Geralt’s heart actually skips.

“Only when I want them to be,” Jaskier agrees. “Lambert?”

“Yeah?”

“Fetch me my knives.”

“You got it, love.”

*

“Alright, that’s it, just like that,” Jaskier tells him softly. “And put a spin on it when you let it go, so it carries the momentum. No, hold it like this, instead.”

Geralt changes his grip. Jaskier’s hand moves away from Geralt’s, running along his outstretched arm, over his shoulder, down his back to his waist. He stands _very_ close behind Geralt.

“Give it a shot.”

Geralt takes a deep breath.

He throws the knife.

It bounces off the wall with a clatter, about a foot away from Marx’s head. Valdo whimpers.

“Almost there, love,” Jaskier praises despite the failure. “Just a little more practice. Try again.”

Geralt takes another deep breath and launches another knife.

He grunts when it too bounces off the wall.

At least he’s inching closer to the target.

Valdo’s nails dig into the wood-paneling that covers the wall he stands against, body quivering

Eskel hisses like a cat.

Valdo snaps to attention; hands flattening out, heels to the wall, head back, eyes wide open.

Eskel’s vampiric _mind-control_ powers are _terrifying._

And yet, at the same time, so very _arousing._

But Geralt tries very hard not to think about it right now. Now is not the time for it. He does make a mental note to bring it up with Eskel later.

He mimics the motion of his knife-throw, just trying to get a feeling for it. It feels like he’s got the motion right, he just needs to get a better spin on it and put some more power into it so it’ll actually _stick_ in the wall.

He throws the blade.

His breath catches in his throat as the knife hits the wall and finally _stays there._

It’s crooked, and quite far from the target, but at least he’s making progress. He got it to stick, anyway.

He offers the rest of the knives to Jaskier.

“No, no, go on!” Jaskier urges.

Geralt shakes his head. “No. You should do it.”

 _“Aw,_ but you look so _sexy_ with a knife, though,” the doppler tells him.

Geralt smiles. “And that’s something we might explore more later, _but_ he’s your ex. You deserve to have this moment for yourself.”

Jaskier hums. “You’re too sweet,” he says and accepts the knives.

While Geralt sits himself on the edge of the desk, Jaskier counts his knives. Lovely, another twenty to go.

Jaskier fixes his eyes on Marx.

Jaskier hates him. He _hates_ him. Their relationship… It was _not_ good. Jaskier wouldn’t even care to call it a _relationship._ What he’d prefer to call it, though, would be _a hostage situation._

“I hope you don’t think this is _just_ about today, Valdo, because it isn’t. Today was just the cup running over. The straw that broke the camel’s back, if you will.”

He throws a knife.

 _Thwack,_ and it sticks to the wall only a few inches above Valdo’s head.

 _“This_ is about you being an absolutely miserable excuse of a person and a total waste of space. Let’s list everything you’ve done wrong in your life. Or the things I know about, anyway, and the things you did to me.”

 _Thwack,_ and another knife sticks less than an inch from Valdo’s right ear.

“Let’s start with an easy one. You lied to me and tricked me into your bed. The day after, when I realized what a disgusting man you were and tried to leave, you used your song to hypnotize me.”

 _Thwack,_ and Valdo hisses as the knife slices a gash in his left ear, the blade sticking to the wall.

“And you ensnared me. And you kept me trapped with you for months. _Years.”_

 _Thwack._ The knife lands just under Valdo’s outstretched right arm.

“You did things to me. Awful things. _You raped me.”_

_Thwack._

Valdo whimpers; the knife sits between his thighs, much too close for comfort.

Jaskier can tell his boys are on the verge of boiling over, at hearing these thing, hearing what Jaskier is saying about his history with Valdo.

Though, they know that their outrage is not needed; it is appreciated, but it is not needed. Not now. Jaskier has it very well under control.

“Over and over again. Every single night, you used your voice to make me spread my legs for you and make me smile while I did it. You controlled me and used me, and turned me into your puppet.”

 _Thwack_ and _thwack!_

Valdo cries out; one buries itself in the meat of his left arm, while the other stabs into his lower right thigh.

Blood spatters, then trickles. It pools on the floor around his feet.

“And if it weren’t for a certain friend of mine who happens to be a witch, I would probably still be under your control. Wouldn’t I, Valdo?”

The siren sobs. He looks _pathetic._

“But to add insult to your injury, our mentor chose to make _me_ his heir. He gave _me_ the business, and he put _you_ back to doing grunt work. And you couldn’t do _a thing_ about it. You couldn’t take control of me again because thanks to my witch friend, siren’s voices no longer affect me.”

Three more knives thrown, and they halo around the man’s head.

“And it’s a known fact in our community that _no one likes you._ No one listens to you. No one _cares_ about you. Because everyone knows.”

Jaskier approaches him.

He tosses the knives onto the desk, keeping one held tightly in his right hand.

 _“Everyone_ knows what kind of person you are, what you like to use your voice for, what you like to do to people.”

Valdo looks _terrified,_ and Jaskier _thrives._ It’s what Valdo deserves. After everything he’s done, this is his punishment and Jaskier will revel in it.

“They only interact with you because they _have to._ Because I have been the bigger man and _let you live.”_

They stand almost nose to nose when Jaskier leans in close to Valdo. They share a breath. Jaskier’s eyes rake over the siren’s face; he takes in the beautiful sight of tear-tracks running down the man’s cheeks.

“But no more. No longer. The cup hath indeed _finally_ runneth over. And trust me when I say, people will rejoice in the streets when they hear _you are dead.”_

He slits Valdo’s throat with one slow, decisive stroke.

Valdo gurgles and wheezes.

Jaskier doesn’t mind the blood that fountains from the slash, drenching him.

He makes more swift cuts across Valdo’s neck. He slices open his skin and parts the muscle and sinew and tendon with his hands, searching through his blood-slicked parts.

“Look at that,” Jaskier hums. “They’re all just stacked on top of each other! Who would’ve thought? So simple, yet capable of such amazing things. Incredible.”

He removes himself from Valdo’s throat and steps back. He drops the knife, it clatters to the floor, and shakes the dripping blood from his hands.

Geralt is there swiftly, offering a glass of whiskey. Jaskier takes it happily and drinks it back in one. Geralt takes the glass again while Jaskier takes the hand-towel Eskel has prepared for him.

“Lambert, I trust you’ll take care of the body?”

A deep growl rumbles out of the werewolf. He looks like he’s just about to start drooling. “You know it,” he says. “Want me to save a piece? Give the cops a chance to ID him?”

“Yes, that’d be good. I’m sure you’ll figure out somewhere fun to dump whatever’s left of him when you’re finished.”

Lambert doesn’t need more permission than that. He all but jumps at Valdo’s corpse, his body half-shifting in preparation for this meal.

“Eskel, call the clean up crew, will you? Get them here quickly too. You know blood becomes a damn nightmare once it dries into the hardwood.”

The vampire smiles. “I’ll have them here in a snap.”

“Geralt, won’t you be a dear and brew me some tea while I shower?”

“Of course,” Geralt tells him with a small smile. “Take off your clothes here. No need to trail blood through the whole penthouse.”

Jaskier snorts, and begins to disrobe. “Suppose you’re right.”

He removes his clothes swiftly, letting them fall into the slowly growing pool of blood that surrounds Lambert and his meal. He reaches over to the werewolf. He looks up at Jaskier with big eyes, gnawing on a dismembered forearm, all but purring as he eats. Jaskier pets his head with a gentle touch.

“That’s my lovely boy,” he hums. ”You’re always _such_ a good boy for me.”

Lambert’s eyes fall closed, leaning into the touch.

Jaskier steps out of the blood and toes out of his shoes, then removes the last of his clothes. He leaves his office, hurrying to the closest bathroom.

Today has been a good day.

A shower will be nice; after that, he will curl up in bed with all his boys while the cleaners take care of the mess.

And tomorrow, the city will rejoice with the news of Valdo Marx’s death.


End file.
